Shatterhand
by seano
Summary: Three years after the events of SPECTRE, a retired James Bond is asked to investigate a personal matter for M - the disappearance of his niece from an experimental medical clinic in Japan.
1. Chapter 1

"Bit of a chill in the air this evening, yes?" Ernst Stavro Blofeld said to no one in particular as he hobbled down the gravel pathway. The sun was low in the sky and the cold wind off the Atlantic Ocean that had been a constant over the time they had been here was gusting strongly.

Blofeld leaned heavily on the wooden cane that he had been given and winced in pain every time he put weight on his broken right leg. A grim-faced group of five men walked behind him. Immediately behind him were Gareth Mallory, the head of the British Secret Service better known as M, and his chief-of-staff Bill Tanner. Behind them were three SAS commandos, carrying high-powered automatic rifles.

After a long ten minutes of shuffling down the path, they finally reached the solid metal gate which represented the only break in the ten-foot high concrete walls that encircled the facility. With a lurch and a loud creak, the gate moved open, revealing the gravel path continued out on to a windswept dune along the ocean coast. No other buildings or people were in sight.

Blofeld turned around, and gave a slight smile to the men.

"I think a long goodbye would be too emotional for us all, so I think I'll just be off."

With that, he turned around again, and continued shuffling down the path. The men watched him, silently for a while, until Tanner couldn't take it anymore.

"How can you do this, sir? After all that's happened?"

"It's not my decision," Mallory replied glumly. "There are other interests at stake."

Finally, Blofeld's shape disappeared into the darkness out of sight.

"Shut the damn gate," Mallory said, turning to go back into the building.

* * *

Four days earlier, Mallory had been momentarily refreshed by the cold blast of wind that hit him in the face as he exited the black Range Rover. This long week had been made longer by a journey that had been incredibly bumpy, from their small army jet being buffeted by turbulence to the hour-long drive over cratered gravel roads to lead them here.

"Godforsaken place," he muttered under his breath. He wasn't entirely wrong. The RRH Benbecula sat on the western coast of the island of North Uist in the Outer Hebrides. It was built in 1980 to host a long-range surveillance radar that was remotely monitored hundreds of miles away at RAF Boulmer. Most days, the small walled compound that surrounded the radar dome was unoccupied. And most years, the site would only see quarterly visits by a maintenance technician to double-check that everything was in working order.

But today was not like most days. And this had been a year like no other.

He looked around and saw the three heavily-armed SAS commandos staring at him, waiting for an order, while Bill Tanner unlocked the door to the unassuming concrete box that functioned as the control center.

'Well, get him out," Mallory barked at them with a hint of irritation in his voice, and the soldiers moved quickly yet deliberately to the back of the SUV, opening the rear hatch. He turned back and looked into the vehicle for a moment.

"Are you coming?" he said to Q, who was still working on his computer.

"Yes, yes, right away, sir," he said, stuffing his laptop into a backpack.

Together, they walked through the door of the command center and followed Tanner to the back of the building where he opened another locked door, revealing a steep downward staircase.

Mallory's predecessor as head of MI6 had seen fit to make some improvements to the facility after the events of September 11, 2001 – turning it into a "black site", one in a network of top-secret detention facilities that had been constructed to process high-value terrorism suspects. While Benbecula had been constructed to hold up to eight such suspects at any one time, this was in fact the first time it had ever been used.

"Get it ready," Mallory said to Q. "You know what I want , right?"

"Yes, sir. No connections anywhere. We'll do it the old-fashioned way."

The commandos came into the building next, carrying a man. He was wearing an orange jumpsuit with a black hood over his head. His right leg was in a cast, but despite that, it still seemed to be hanging at an unusual angle.

"Right," Mallory said. "Tanner – get him set up in the interrogation room. Give him some food and water. And get something for us, too. It's going to be a long evening."

Mallory followed the group downstairs and closed the door behind them.

Six hours later, Mallory shifted uncomfortably in his chair. The interrogation had gone for five hours, and it had gone around in circles. Mallory had obtained nothing new or meaningful in that time. He stared across the table. The peanut butter sandwich and glass of water in front of his subject had gone untouched. The only sign of discomfort was the occasional dabbing of an open wound on his face with a tissue. Mallory thought he could notice the slightest hint of a wince when that happened.

"I can make this much more difficult on you," Mallory said with a touch of exasperation in his voice.

Ernst Stavro Blofeld showed his first sign of emotion in the session, but it wasn't what Mallory was expecting as the leader of SPECTRE allowed a broad smile to cross his face.

"Oh, I'm sure you can," Blofeld said with a mischievous lilt to his voice. "But actually, Mr. Mallory – may I call you M, I feel like we've been together long enough now that we can move past the formalities?"

Blofeld watched Mallory's stone-face reaction, then continued.

"No? Very well then. I think you misunderstand the situation. The difficulty is all on your side. You see, Mr. Mallory, you think the heroics of James Bond and your other friends made a difference, when in fact, they didn't. Nine Eyes may have never become operational from your perspective, but our backdoors into those systems have existed for months or even years, in some cases. SPECTRE has had more information than you for quite some time now."

"You're the one who is in prison. And those backdoors have been closed."

"Oh, this is just a temporary inconvenience."

Blofeld leaned forward and took a bite of the peanut butter sandwich.

"And to think that people complain about English cuisine. This is magnificent! But I digress. Our work continues to this day, Mr. Mallory. My associates know where all of your so-called "black sites" are. And your claim that the backdoors are closed is an uninformed bluff. Until a few days ago, you had no idea they even existed! And even if – by some sort of miracle – you have accomplished it, then – how do you say it – the horse is already in the field already. It's too late! Soon enough, you will be walking me to the front door and wishing me a pleasant afternoon as I walk away from here a free man."

"What makes you think that? After all you have done?"

"The longer I sit here, the greater the risk is for you. I represent a ticking time bomb, and you have no way of knowing what the clock reads."

"What are you talking about?"

"Do you not understand? Everyone has secrets, Mr. Mallory. Even you."

Blofeld leaned back in his chair and took another bite of sandwich, washing it down with a drink of water. His left eye flashed with intensity and vigor.

"Well, that's not precisely correct. Everyone had secrets. But those secrets are ours now. You, however, control their fate. The longer I sit here, the greater the probability that my associates will dump them all. Democracy at work, some might say.

"But I suspect that many won't see it that way. Your Prime Minister won't want the contents of his personal e-mails made public, although I think his wife would be very interested by what he's been saying. Your American friends don't want to see their listing of covert agents publicized. The Chinese don't want the details of their cyberwarfare revealed. And the megacorporations that you all depend on most assuredly don't want people to know how deep their tendrils go into government or into the lives of the everyday person."

"I won't pay your extortion."

"Extortion is my business, Mr. Mallory," Blofeld said, allowing that smile to cross his face again. "I can assure you that you will pay. It may not be your choice, but you will pay. It's merely a matter of time. I am patient, and I am comfortable with my life's work. Your superiors and your friends, though, are not so patient nor so content. They have much to protect, and they will go to great lengths to protect it. Even if it means that I walk away. Just you wait and see!"

"What is your price?"

"My price?" Blofeld leaned in across the table again. "It's very simple, Mr. Mallory. I want to be left alone."


	2. Chapter 2

THREE YEARS LATER

KYUSHU, JAPAN

Taro Todoyoshi groaned loudly in a mix of exertion and accomplishment as he pulled himself on top of the wooden gate. He gave himself a moment to breathe, and then turned around to reach his hand down.

"Aki, come on!" he called to his girlfriend, who was slowly working her way up the black rock wall next to the gate.

Taro had always fancied himself an adventurer, so when he heard someone in his mechanical engineering class tell the story of the "Castle of Death", he knew he just had to see it for himself.

The "Castle of Death" – how marvelous he thought that sounded! His classmate told the story of how so many folks who lived in the small fishing village that it shared an island with had gone missing. And it was rumored that many would come to the Castle in an attempt to end their own lives.

When he and Aki had arrived in the village a couple of days ago, they asked questions about the castle, but the villagers would say nothing. Other than they were pleased that the castle's owners – a foreign married couple, an American woman and a Swiss man – had built a new school and upgraded the small harbor, making it easier on the village's fishermen. He had also built a small clinic near the harbor, which catered to wealthy medical tourists.

He and Aki hiked on the side of the volcano that made up most of the island yesterday. From above, they were able to look down on the castle and its grounds. It was an almost square piece of property, with only the seaside having irregularities. A six-story wooden pagoda was at the rear of the land furthest away from town, with most of the area between the front gate and the pagoda consisting of a large garden dotted by fumaroles and geysers whose sulphorous mist gave the grounds an eerie feel even on a bright afternoon. A small lake was at the center of the garden, surrounded by a circular path which then branched off to connect to the pagoda. Other smaller paths branched off the circular path to access the other parts of the garden. Two maintenance sheds sat near the walls, across from each other midway between the pagoda and the front gate.

With another loud groan, Taro pulled Aki up to the top of the wall. He had made her wear the backpack in a display that proved that Japanese chauvinism still existed. Together, they scanned the garden. It was quiet and still, with the fumarole mist mixing with a damp ocean fog to shroud the grounds making it difficult to see the paths that criss-crossed the garden.

"See, it's quiet. Nothing to worry about," he said, pointing across the garden to the pagoda, which was dark except for one glowing window on the fifth floor. "Let's go!"

Taro dropped down off the wall, landing somewhat awkwardly, and headed off into the dark.

A few seconds later, Aki heard his voice call.

"Come on! Jump down!"

Aki took a deep breath, and watched her exhale float in the air for a moment before jumping down herself. She landed hard, feeling a twinge in her ankle. She let out a small cry.

"Taro! Where are you?"

No response came back from the dark and the mist. Quickly, she fished through her backpack, pulling out a flashlight. She punched at it, watching it flicker to life, then out again. She gave it a desperate shake, and it finally – _finally!_ – lit up for good.

"Taro!"

Aki swung her flashlight to the left with a start as she heard a shriek and a rustling in the shrubs. She took one step backwards, feeling her back touch the wooden gate. The rustling stopped, replaced by a low moan. There was no turning back now. Cautiously, she moved towards the noise, swinging the flashlight back and forth, finding herself moving between two rows of carefully maintained hedges.

A flash of movement caught her eye, as she approached the end of the hedges.

"Taro!" she screamed, seeing him lying face-down on the ground, rolling around with his hands clawing at his face.

Aki rushed to Taro's side, trying to turn him over and control his hands. What possessed him? Finally, she buried her knee into his side which stunned him for a second. She rolled him over, but dropped the flashlight with a yelp when she got a look at his face.

His face – which had become a grotesque mask, swollen and unrecognizable. His eyes, which were now just bloody slits. His cheeks were bloated, puffy, and cherry red.

She ran. The direction was unimportant. Just away was all that she wanted. She looked over her shoulder as she ran, seeing Taro stagger to his feet to try and follow her. She had to get away.

Her hands stung with pain as she fell onto the gravel path that encircled the lake. She let herself breathe for a moment.

The moment vanished quickly, though. The bushes to her right began to quiver, and a large rattlesnake aggressively emerged from the under the branches. Aki began scampering backwards, crabwalking on her hands and feet, before working her way upright and walking backwards.

Backwards, until her foot gave way, and she tumbled down the steep slope on the banks of the lake. Her fingernails dragged through the mud as her lower body entered the water. Within seconds, she found herself bobbing in the cool waters of the lake.

As she started to paddle back to shore, she saw a small silver fish dart at her left arm and take a nip of her bicep. Within seconds, there was another. And another. And another. And another…

The lake swelled and bubbled around her as the swarm of piranha surrounded her thrashing body. Ten minutes later, the lifeless corpse bobbed gently on the surface of the lake as a few remaining fish picked at the scraps of flesh that still clung bitterly to her bones.


	3. Chapter 3

JAMAICA

Was the cursor laughing at him? All morning, it had remained there, blinking in the upper-left corner. Mocking him, it seemed. James Bond pounded his fists into the desk, and quickly typed out:

 _All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy._

Then, he spat out an expletive and finished off the lukewarm bottle of Red Stripe he had been nursing for the better part of an hour. _The best way to deal with a hangover is to just keep drinking_ , he mused.

Three long years had passed since that evening on the Westminster Bridge. It had been purely a spur of the moment decision to thrown down the Walther. For years, he had been criticized by his superiors for having those he pursued end up dead. Yet, there he had been – with his country's most formidable enemy crawling on the ground in front of him, his former step-brother, no less – with his finger on the trigger and he just walked away.

He had wrapped up his affairs in London in short order, despite Mallory's attempts to keep him in the fold – which had varied from a one-on-one meeting at the exclusive Blades club to personal appeals from Moneypenny and Tanner, and promises from Q to outfit a new Bentley for Bond with all the latest technology. Most of his possessions were sold, although he kept his quaint flat in Chelsea and rented it out to an elderly Scottish couple who had moved to London to be near their children. And his beloved Aston Martin DB-5 was safely in storage in a small garage behind his mechanic's shop.

Between the sale of his possessions, proceeds from the auction of Skyfall Lodge, and his modest pension which kicked in immediately upon his retirement from the Double-O section, he had a sufficient nest egg to go in with Madeleine (who had prudently stashed away most of her earnings from the Hoffler Klinik in Swiss bank accounts, per her father's advice) on a new life in a new place.

When Madeleine suggested Jamaica, it didn't take Bond long to agree. He had always loved the Caribbean, with its crystal blue waters and white beaches. And, in places, there was still just enough of the former colonial vibe to please him.

The first place their realtor showed them was perfect – a three-bedroom villa on the country's northern coast with a crescent-shaped private beach. It had once been the property of a famous British novelist, the realtor had said, but Bond didn't recognize the name. They wrote the offer right away – full price – and it was quickly accepted.

Madeleine set up her own practice down the road in Ocho Rios.

"I'm just a small town country doctor now," she often told him with a cheery smile while recounting the charming stories of the locals she had seen that day.

Bond, meanwhile, spent much of the first year doing nothing. Nothing of consequence, anyway. He had made friends with a local guide named Fidele Barbey and spent a lot of time on the water going fishing. And scuba-diving. And drinking.

After some gentle prodding from Madeleine, year two had gone differently. He called in some of his old MI6 contacts and secured a temporary contract doing security consulting for a banking corporation headquartered on Grand Cayman. It paid well, but Bond found the work dreadfully dull. And he discovered that boardroom meetings were no more pleasant than the briefings he had sat through at Regent's Park.

Year two was also when the idea of _Stay Alive!_ was born. The book was meant to be Bond's practical guide to hand-to-hand combat for the average citizen, combined with stories from his time in the Secret Service. After months of haggling with London, he had negotiated a level of disclosure sufficient enough to sell books without revealing any state secrets. A publishing contract soon followed, along with a deadline and a nice advance check.

The first half of the book flowed smoothly, even for someone trained as a spy and not as a writer. The third quarter of the book was a little more difficult, but still came fairly easily. The ticker on the last quarter of the book had now reached six months, and the pressure of the deadline and finishing the project the right way was getting to Bond.

Madeleine had been troubled that Bond's first move in the morning upon getting up was heading straight to the bar and pouring himself a rum. So much so, in fact, that she had at least convinced him to downshift into beer to ensure that he was still upright by the time she came home from work in the evening.

Bond got up from the desk and wandered over to the kitchen. He deposited the empty bottle into the trash bin, and grabbed a fresh, cold Red Stripe from the refrigerator. He walked out on the open patio overlooking the ocean and sighed heavily. He stared at the ocean, hypnotized by the waves as they broke over a small coral reef that sheltered the slender ribbon of sand that lay below the house.

About three-quarters of the beer later, a loud knock at the front door brought him back to reality. The heavy wooden door creaked open slightly, and Fidele's wide, beaming face peeked around it.

"James! James Bond!" Fidele said. "Are you in there? Can you come out play?"

Seeing Bond, Fidele walked in, dressed in his usual garish clothing. Today, it was an orange Hawaiian-print shirt with long khaki shorts and white socks that almost came up to his knees.

"Good Lord, Fidele," Bond said with a smirk. "Who the hell wears a Hawaiian shirt in Jamaica?"

"On sale, my friend! Some of us aren't living on the government dole, you know!"

"What trouble have you come to get me into today?"

"I have come to save you from your rigors as an author. How many pages have you hacked out this beautiful day?"

Bond just stared at him blankly.

"Exactly!" Fidele exclaimed. "You need to get away – and I have just the opportunity for you to do so!"

"What the hell are you talking about, Fidele?"

"You see, I just got hired by one of your fellow countrymen. Just rolled into harbor a couple of days ago in his yacht. You'd probably say he's a 'bloody prick', as his crew all quit on him once they docked, but his money's as good as anyone else's. Fellow by the name of Krest. Milton Krest, to be precise. Fancies himself a nature lover, he's looking for a rare fish that hasn't been seen around here in 40-some years. He's an idiot, of course, but as I said, the money is good, and it's only a three-day tour. I need an extra hand to help me with all of his equipment. He's got all the fanciest technological gadgets on that boat, James, and besides he says he's former SAS. I figure you guys can swap war stories for a few days to keep him off my ass if nothing else."

"I don't know, Fidele…"

"Christ's sake, James. Listen to yourself. I know what's coming next. You're worried about leaving Madeleine."

"I took responsibility for her."

"It's been three years. Do you follow her around every second of every day? No, you've gotten over that. Listen, James, she doesn't like seeing you mope around here all day, drinking all the time and not writing your book. At least come mope around, drink, and not write your book for a couple of days with me. It will do you some good, my friend."

"I'll think about it, Fidele."

Fidele turned and headed back towards the door. As he left he called over his shoulder, "See you tomorrow, James!"

* * *

The next morning, James Bond found himself following Fidele down the docks carrying a small duffel bag containing a few days worth of clothes and supplies. Madeleine had given him the go-ahead with little argument, agreeing with Fidele that maybe a few days away would clear his head.

The two men bounded up the stairs of the boat, not so cleverly named the _Wavekrest_. The man himself stood with his back to them, facing out towards the ocean. His posture was rigid, just like a former SAS man would be, and it seemed familiar.

"Mr. Krest, I'd like you to meet my friend…" Fidele said.

The man turned around suddenly and faced them. Bond hoped the measure of surprise he felt in his stomach didn't register on his face.

"No introductions are necessary, Fidele. Mr. Bond and I are well-acquainted." Gareth Mallory said, a smile crossing his face.


	4. Chapter 4

Bond quickly regained his composure and found his anger.

"What's this dog-and-pony show about, Mallory?"

Mallory gestured to the small table and chair set on the rear deck.

"We need to talk."

"Talk? There's nothing to talk about. I gave you my answer three years ago. It hasn't changed."

Mallory turned to Fidele. "Would you mind leaving James and I alone for a few minutes?"

Fidele anxiously looked at Bond, who nodded his head.

"Sure thing, Mr., um, Krest or Mallory, sir," Fidele's voice trailed off, uncertain as to what exactly was going on here. He quickly turned and headed back down the stairs and down the dock.

Mallory turned his focus back to Bond, staring him directly in the eyes.

"I'm not here to change your answer. But I am here to ask a favor," Mallory said, with a look that was simultaneously firm but pleading. "A personal one. I need the help of someone I can trust."

Bond eyed Mallory warily, but moved to the rear of the boat and took a seat.

"Right. Good," Mallory said, almost nervously. "Can I get you a drink? I understand you've become quite the rum drinker since moving down here."

"Sure," Bond replied curtly.

Mallory went over to the bar, and quickly poured two glasses of rum over ice.

"Like you, James, I've never been a person who's been overly sentimental or emotional," he said as he walked back, handing the drink to Bond and then taking a seat at the table. "I've never married. Never had children. Always seemed like too much of a risk, especially in my current role. But I adored my niece – my brother's daughter. Her name was Sophie. I was her godfather, and every summer I would take her for a week and we would go to the beach and go swimming or go to the lake and fish for trout. She was smart and strong and funny and fiercely independent.

"My brother – you may know him – has been quite successful. He gave her everything she could possibly want and asked little of her in return. She spent too much of her time partying. She began to use drugs and became addicted to heroin."

Mallory took a long drink and collected himself for a second.

"My brother and his wife, they tried everything. Sent her to multiple clinics, all kinds of treatment programs. Nothing seemed to work. She would come out of the program and be fine for a while. But the demons would always grab her again."

Bond had never seen Mallory show this kind of emotion before.

"You refer to her in the past tense," he said. "What happened? An overdose?"

"That's in part why you're here," Mallory replied. "As a last resort, my brother found a clinic in Japan. On Kyushu. The southern coast, in a small fishing village built on the side of a dormant volcano. A Swiss doctor had set up shop there, with a new regime of radical therapies. New experimental medicines from rare plant and animal compounds combined with extensive psycho therapies. They take the most extreme conditions of their type – drug abusers, degenerative bone and muscle diseases, cancer of all kinds, brain tumors – you name it, they try to cure it. They've had some remarkable success stories.

"Well, she had been there less than two weeks when my brother got the call that she was dead. Suicide, they said. The clinic has a garden and they said she had thrown herself into a fumarole. That's what they said."

Mallory began to tear up.

"I know it's not true. As troubled as Sophie was, she was never suicidal – never!" His eyes flashed with fury and his composure returned. "So I started digging. And I found that she was the 8th Briton to die at the clinic since it opened just two years ago. And some 37 clinic patients from around the world had died there, too. Worse, there had been literally dozens of reports of people sneaking onto the grounds there to commit suicide. There's something not right with this place, James."

"I assume you talked to your counterparts at Naicho?"

"I did. They said they had investigated the clinic and everything was on the up-and-up," Mallory spat out the words with bitterness. "Listen, I have great respect for my colleagues there, but that part of Japanese society still clings to the secrecy and culture from decades ago. They don't like to admit that they got something wrong. And just enough about their culture has changed that there's undoubtedly political pressure to protect a large foreign investment in one of the poorest areas of their country."

"That's awful conspiratorial of you, isn't it? Sounds like the sort of nonsense from an internet chat room or something."

Mallory shrugged his shoulders slightly.

"Listen, James, all I can tell you is what my instincts are telling me. Too many people are dying there for this to be purely innocent."

He paused, and tilted his head towards Bond's empty drink.

"Another?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Mallory stood up, collected Bond's glass, and made his way over to the bar.

"And besides, how do I fit into this?" Bond said. "I'm not the Medical Practices Board."

"Most true," Mallory said, as he walked back to the table with Bond's drink. "But I think there's still something you can do to help."

Mallory handed Bond his drink, and then walked behind Bond's chair to go around the table. As he crossed behind Bond, he grabbed and squeezed Bond's right shoulder hard. Bond screamed in anguish and dropped his drink. Just that quickly, Mallory released the hold and took his seat across from Bond.

"That depleted uranium shell from Turkey is causing you problems," Mallory deadpanned. "Your shoulder is deteriorating – and fast, it seems."

"Bloody hell," Bond said. "What's the point?"

"I've arranged for you to get some help."

"From a clinic in Japan?"

"Exactly."

Mallory shifted in his chair, and leaned forward across the table.

"I've done what I can do officially. I can't afford to expend a Double-O on this. All I'm asking is that you go, get some treatment for your shoulder and do some discreet poking around."

"And find a way to not end up getting roasted by a fumarole."

"Something like that, yes. But let me stress – this would strictly unofficial. There's no cavalry coming to the rescue and I will disavow you to the Japanese authorities if they come asking about you. So don't stick your neck out too far, right?"

"What makes you think I want to do this?"

"I'm not sure that you do," Mallory said, leaning back in his chair. "But I know that you're the one person I can trust with this. And I also know that there's some small piece of you in there that regrets the decision you made three years ago. This is a chance for you to flex those muscles again, even for just a week or two."

"But Madeleine…"

"You can't live in fear of ghosts the rest of your life, James. Blofeld is gone. There's been no sign of him. SPECTRE has ceased to exist. We've chased their operatives to the ends of the earth and eliminated them. He's crawled under some rock somewhere because he knows we'll cut his head off if it ever pops up anywhere again. And, besides, Madeleine is a doctor. Helping people is what she's devoted her career towards doing. If you can expose this clinic, you can make sure that Sophie's death – and all the others - weren't in vain."

Bond sighed. He knew there was truth in what Mallory had to say.

Mallory pulled a plane ticket and a flash drive out of his pocket, and slid it across the table to Bond.

"This is everything I know," he said, tapping his finger on the flash drive. "Commit it to memory and destroy it before you leave. You are booked on a flight that leaves in three days. Tokyo via New York, departing from Montego Bay. There, you'll transfer to bullet train which will bring you to Kagoshima. You will be met in Kagoshima by a representative of the clinic. You will find more details on the drive, but the clinic does a one-week workup and evaluation of your condition, typically followed by one to three weeks of treatment for new patients."

Silence hung between the two men for several seconds. Bond sized up the situation. For once, he had the control. No more being at the beck and call of Her Majesty. The decision was his: did he want to do this?

"All right, Mallory," Bond finally said. "I'll have a look – if Madeleine is OK with it, and only if she is fine with it."

"I've taken the step of working with your literary agency to be the intermediary for your communications with us. Your code words are on the drive."

"I'll be in touch tomorrow."

"I'll count on it, James."

The two men stood up and shook hands, and Bond got up and headed for the stairs.

"Thank you," Mallory said as Bond stepped on to the dock.

Bond could only look back and flash a small grin. Something had been reignited.


	5. Chapter 5

Truth be told, Bond thought to himself as the Boeing 777 lifted into the sky to begin the long journey from New York to Tokyo, the conversation with Madeleine had gone too easy. She had barely hesitated when Bond had asked for the go-ahead to take on Mallory's request. He wondered for a moment what that meant about their future, but then his mind transitioned back to the mission.

Mallory's dossier had revealed that the clinic was something truly remarkable and unusual. There were dozens of documented cases of what most people would only classify as medical miracles. Remarkable tales of recovery from cancerous brain tumors, suppression of life-threatening allergies, and the halting of muscle and bone loss from degenerative conditions filled page after page. The doctors, an American woman named Anna Farbig and a Swiss man named Guntram Shatterhand, had impeccable credentials.

As he reclined his seat and closed his eyes, though, his thoughts turned to the other stories in the dossier. The 37 dead people. Bodies turned to ash in a fumarole. Adverse reactions to experimental drugs. Drownings in the ocean. And nearly a dozen who had disappeared without a trace. His mind began to picture the agony and suffering of those particular patients at the clinic. Bond's eyes snapped open and he flagged down the flight attendant to request a double vodka and a glass of ice.

* * *

Some 15 hours or so later, a weary Bond settled into the window seat of the shinkansen that would take him to the far reaches of Japan's southern island, Kyushu. He had made several trips to Japan previously, and he still felt somewhat out of place. He sighed and looked aimlessly out the window for a few moments, until the sound of a briefcase plopping down on the seat next to him jolted him back to attention.

Bond turned his head and looked up to see a middle-aged white man tossing a duffel bag in the overhead compartment. His linen suit was rumpled and wrinkled, drops of sweat lined his brow below his thinning salt-and-pepper colored hair, and his face wore an expression of general irritation.

The man awkwardly grabbed the briefcase and threw it in the overhead compartment, slamming it shut with a solid thud, then flopped into the aisle seat next to Bond.

He looked over and gave Bond a hearty smile.

"Cripes," he said in a thick Australian accent. "I've lived here for over 20 years, and these people still drive me crazy. Always mucking around in the subways. Jam-packed like sardines. I'll never get used to it."

Bond just looked back with a look of incredulousness and bemusement.

"My name's Henderson. Richard Lovelace Henderson," the man continued. "But you can call me Dikko. All my friends do. And I know by the end of this trip we'll be good friends."

He thrust his hand, large but with stubby well-worn fingers, towards Bond.

"My name is Bond," he replied taking Henderson's hand firmly. "James Bond."

"A Brit?" Henderson said. "What brings you to this side of the world? If I were you, I'd head right back to Haneda and fly home."

"Medical treatment," Bond replied. "My doctor recommended this experimental treatment at a clinic in a little fishing village."

"The Farbig Clinic?" Henderson replied. "Suppose you've heard the tales of 'The Castle of Death', then?"

"Castle of Death?" Bond questioned, playing stupid. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm headed to the same village you are," Henderson replied. "I'm in the fish business, Bond. I go down there, work with the locals, and get their catch shipped to Kagoshima Airport, then flown back here to Tokyo so it can be in Sydney in time for supper tomorrow night. The locals tell me stories of the Castle where the doctors live. It's become something of a macabre tourist spot."

Henderson lowered voice and leaned in conspiratorially.

"Apparently, there are all sorts of trouble one can get into there. The whole area is built on an ancient volcano, so there are geysers and the like everywhere. And apparently they grow all kinds of exotic plants there. Very poisonous. Some people apparently try to sneak on to the grounds to, well you know, end it all. As I said before, I'll never get used to it."

Henderson appraised the somewhat stunned look on Bond's face and quickly regrouped.

"I'm sure it will all be fine for you, though."

* * *

Hours later, as the shinkansen pulled into the station at Kagoshima, Bond could agree that his Australian counterpart had been right on one thing: he had developed a friendship with Dikko Henderson.

They had swapped "war stories" (Henderson had served in the Australian Army and had been posed to Tokyo as part of a defense intelligence initiative during the 1990s and found himself staying there.). And they had drunk a lot of sake. Bond had chosen to use stick to his career in the Royal Navy as a cover for his injury, with an inheritance from a wealthy relative to explain how he was affording the expensive care of the Farbig Clinic. Both men were a bit tipsy as they sauntered into the station and prepared to part ways.

"Here's my card," Henderson said, offering Bond a small rectangle bearing the company name East-West Import-Export. "If you get a free moment, give my cell a ring. I'll show you where to get the best drinks in all of Kyushu – and it's just a few blocks from your blasted clinic."

Bond pocketed Henderson's card, shook his hand, then watched Dikko disappear into the crowded lobby of the station. At the same time, he saw someone else moving his way. It was a statuesque red-headed woman in an equally red business suit. She walked with purpose, directly towards him.

As soon as he could get a clear look, Bond immediately recognized her from the photos in Mallory's dossier.

"Mr. Bond!" she called out as she got nearer to him.

Bond raised his hand to acknowledge her presence. As he started to take a step towards her, though, he was bumped hard in the back by a bulky man in a dark black suit, a black knit cap pulled tight over his forehead and a white sanitary mask.

The man muttered something unintelligible which Bond took to be an apology and moved off into the crowd. Bond followed him with his eyes for a second then turned as he saw a flash of red in his peripheral vision.

"Mr. Bond," the woman said as she reached Bond. "It's a pleasure to meet you. My name is Dr. Anna Farbig."


End file.
